Politics and Family
by calcaneus
Summary: Matthew and Mary have inherited Downton, and are adapting to the changes when there is a family visit.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This was mainly written before any of Season 3 aired, and I'm not revising it! So it is AU to a certain extent. It also begins after an AU character death, in case that bothers you. Takes place a couple of years after Mary and Matthew's wedding. It is a 4-5 part story, already 95% written, that I'll publish over the next several days. Hope you enjoy!_

The Countess of Grantham ate her breakfast alone with her husband for the first time since they had inherited their titles. Two weeks ago her mother had declared their mourning period was at an end, and the day after she had left for Grantham House in London. It was there that she would begin her true bereavement, Mary suspected. Edith had travelled with her, solemn but peaceful in a manner that was not Edith-like at all. Her mother had made clear before she left that Mary was to make the house her own, and now she sat in silence contemplating what she would change. It was impossible really, to examine critically the house one had been born in, raised, disciplined, pulled into adulthood. It was her father's house, crafted by her mother into a home. She could switch all the art on the walls, update the moldings in every room, paint it all anew. It would never truly be hers.

Matthew was busy too, beginning a modernization of the estate's finances and searching for a way of investing the portion of Cora's fortune that was not tied up in the estate. He'd been in meetings in London and Ripon for most of the last week, and Mary surprised herself by how jealous and forlorn it had made her feel, those first days as the solitary Countess of the house.

She looked over fondly at Matthew buttering his toast and intently scanning the post that Carson had recently brought in. "Anything interesting?"

"Something new, at any rate." He put the bills and legal correspondence to one side, and held up a single handwritten page. "It's from my mother's sister, Sarah Teaford. You met at the wedding."

"Briefly," Mary acknowledged. She had met a lot of new relatives when they married two years ago, and she wasn't sure she could have picked out Mrs. Teaford if she had suddenly materialized in front of them.

"Well, she's asked if they could stay for a few days." Hearing Mary's noise of displeasure, he hastily added. "In a roundabout way. Her husband has business in Ripon, and she mentions that they're looking at inns to stay at, but it seems silly with us being so nearby."

"When?" She couldn't prevent the sharpness in her voice.

"Late next week, something unexpected came up."

"That's not very convenient." Mary's head was automatically beginning the calculations required when guests were expected. Would the first footman be up for serving as valet? Which of the guest rooms could be prepared with the least nuisance? Could they spare one of the motors to deliver Mr. Teaford to appointments in Ripon? She sighed, already exhausted. "Can't they delay it a bit?"

His brow furrowed, and Mary thought perhaps that he thought she was being unreasonable. "It doesn't sound like it. Look, if it's a problem I suppose I could ask Mother if they can stay in our old rooms at Crawley House."

He said it so casually, as if it would cause no inconvenience and as if he was being entirely accommodating. She shook her head shortly. "No, with Molesley and Anna back here now, that would be a big strain on Mrs. Bird. I'll get Anna to freshen up one of the guest rooms. What day will they be arriving?"

"Friday," he said, happily, as if everything was settled.

"What is she like, your aunt? I hardly remember her."

He hid a slight grin behind the post. "Rather like Mother, actually. So if they are on opposite sides of an issue they fight like wildcats, and if they are united they are unstoppable."

"Goodness," said Mary drily. "And him?"

"Uncle Jack is an alright sort. Very keen on economics, he's in the wool trade. Grew up in Bradford."

"Well," said Mary with an air of finality. "I hope that Granny is otherwise engaged for dinner next week."

Matthew chuckled absently, his eyes back on some of the ledgers Murray had most recently given him. "Murray's been asking me about the barns."

"What about them?" Mary didn't bother hiding the sharpness from her tone. She would have been quite happy to seek legal counsel from other quarters, but Matthew had been hesitant to let Murray go before he was brought completely up to speed with the estate. It didn't make her any happier to hear the name of the man whose presence she associated with bad news.

Matthew examined Murray's tiny script awkwardly. "He's suggesting that we keep one barn for the mounts we intend to keep, and consider converting the other one into flats or renting it to one of the tenant farmers."

"And which horses does Murray think we should keep, exactly?"

He looked up and responded to her defensive posture. "Your father did have rather a lot of horses for a man who hated to ride, dear, and Sybil's horse only gets ridden by the groomsman. I'm not suggesting we sell all the horses, but it might be worth considering scaling back."

Her tone was all outrage. "Sybil loves Peony! She'd be devastated if she came for a visit and couldn't ride her."

"Matthew inclined his head with a sardonic smile. "But will Branson ever leave her in a condition so she's able to ride?"

Mary snorted despite herself. "If she's always pregnant and teary-eyed, she'll be all the more furious if we've sold her horse. No, dear, I know Murray's put you up to asking me, but I'm far more sentimental than he realizes. And where would the horses go, anyway? Most of Papa's horses are twenty if they're a day. No one reputable is going to buy them."

"Mmmm," Matthew agreed noncommittally. "We don't have to decide anything about it now, there's no rush."

"No," Mary retorted, trying to tamp down the frustration welling in her. "I think I have decided." She felt suddenly trapped in this room full of inexorable plans, and decided she'd finished her breakfast. Standing, she made her retreat with forced lightness. "I'll go tell Mrs. Hughes about the arrangements for the Teafords. See you later, dear."

His looked up from his papers, and his expression turned suddenly solicitous. "Are you sure, darling? Have you eaten enough? I worry you're wasting away before my eyes."

"Nonsense," replied Mary firmly. "I'm quite full." With a determined smile, she strode from the room.

Her path was automatic, and brought her to the library, where she rang the bell for Mrs. Hughes and settled herself with her book of the hour, This Side of Paradise, which Sybil had sent her as a present. It took her out of Downton, into the romantic trials of a self-absorbed Princeton student. She wasn't sure she liked the main character much, but his problems were not her own and it made them feel remote. She had only read a few pages by the time Mrs. Hughes entered, but it was enough to settle her, enough that she described the planned visit with equanimity and didn't seem overwhelmed by the imposition.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Thanks for reading, here's the next installment!_

The Teafords' arrival was easy enough. Mr. Teaford was quiet, particularly compared to his wife, and Mary was happy that he didn't prattle on about wool prices and factory equipment as if it must be interesting to everyone. In fact, he retired quite soon after they arrived to finish some business in their rooms, and she was hoping that she could spend the rest of the afternoon reading, but Mrs. Teaford quickly expressed an interest in seeing the grounds. Mary remembered the very bright smile her mother often wore when house guests stymied her plans, and found her face molding itself into the same forced expression.

It was nice, though, once they were outside and meandering down Mary's favourite footpath. "This is lovely," Mrs. Teaford gushed. "I'm so glad you don't have one of those horrible formal gardens, with the hedges all at right corners."

Mary allowed herself a slight smirk. "I quite agree, and so did my grandfather. There was one here, but it was torn up when my father was just a boy." She didn't add that the decision had been as much financial as aesthetic. Gardening staffs did not come cheap, and neither did the various shrubs and ornamentals needed to keep such a garden current.

"Are the grounds mainly used for hunting?" Mrs Teaford stared off into the woods along the western side of the estate.

"Hunting and horse-riding," Mary replied.

"There's an estate near Manchester, Farnsley House, where Jack likes to go hunting with his brother on occasion. The Baron has established part of his land as a sort of common, where men from the village can shoot rabbit and so on."

"Does he?" Mary asked rhetorically.

"Yes, it helps him with the pest problem, and the locals aren't so likely to poach if they are allowed some hunting. Do you have anything like that here?" Mary found Mrs. Teaford's look of anticipation unexpectedly annoying.

"No, we don't. My father used to grant permission for some of the local men to fish in our streams, but I don't think I would want strange men with guns to be about on the same paths I use to go riding."

"Oh, I see. What a pity." Mrs. Teaford walked with Mary in silence for a minute or two, before inquiring after the health of the various Crawley relatives she had met at the wedding, and Mary slowly relaxed.

* * *

Anna was fastening her choker when Matthew knocked on the door to Mary's dressing room.

"Oh! I thought you'd be ready." He was impeccable in his black tie and tails, and Mary smiled at his reflection in the mirror as Anna finished with the hooks on the necklace.

"Just about, Lord Grantham," Anna replied with a smile and a curtsey. "Anything else, milady?"

Mary briefly smoothed an errant piece of hair into place, and examined the style from one side to another with a small smile. "No, Anna, you can get back downstairs now."

When she had shut the door, Matthew walked up behind Mary's chair and gave her a brief kiss on her temple, avoiding mussing her hair or wrinkling her clothes. It was a careful action born of much practice and humourous rebukes. Turning, Mary caught his mouth with hers and held his lips to her, enjoying his short hum in response and the gentle insistence of his tongue as he deepened the kiss.

"Mmm," he managed, after she released him. "So you've had a good day?"

She set her head to one side, and smiled. "It was agreeable enough."

"And what do you think of my aunt so far?"

Mary shrugged. "She seemed nice. Very talkative! It was nice to show her around the grounds. I must take Diamond out this week, I can't think why I've been neglecting him."

There was both joy and inexplicable relief in his smile and Mary felt herself soften at the sight of it. Putting her arm in his, she allowed herself to be escorted out of the bedroom and down the main staircase.

* * *

Joining them that evening were the Teafords, Isobel, and the Cartwrights, a wealthy couple from America who had recently purchased Haxby. As the procession of their five course meal began, Mary felt an unanticipated feeling of pride. The starting wine, one of her favourites, paired beautifully with the artichoke soup and the foie gras that Mrs. Patmore had suggested. Comments regarding the dinner - its layout, selection, even the wines that Carson and Matthew had chosen - were all laid at her feet. It was all so unnecessary, and more than a little misplaced, but Mary could not prevent the happy glow that fell about her. This, after all, was perhaps what it felt like to be a Countess during smooth sailing.

While they waited for the main course, Mrs Teaford at last brought up the subject of politics. "What do you think of it, your Ladyship?"

"I'm afraid I'm utterly bored by it," Mary replied flippantly. "Unless finding David Lloyd George unintentionally amusing counts. Really, some of his speeches that we get on the wireless now are a scream." She instantly caught a significant look between Matthew and the cautious Mr. Teaford.

Isobel leaned forward as if smelling fresh blood. "My sister volunteers for Lloyd George's re-election campaign," she pointed out, waiting for Mary's reaction.

"That sounds dreadfully unpleasant," Mary responded, her lips thinning. She felt as if she'd just walked into an unseen tripwire.

"I love it," said Sarah Teaford, her eyes flashing. "And I think it's so important for women to be political these days, don't you agree?"

Maude Cartwright, a fiery New Yorker who would love Mary's mother, leaned in excitedly. "Absolutely! The women's movement has come very far, recently, but only because of the actions of a few brave women. We should all do our part." Isobel and Mrs. Cartwright looked meaningfully at Mary, as if they expected Mary to be lit up with enthusiasm for women's lib with a moment's encouragement.

Mary wanted to make an impatient noise like she always would have, but she imagined how her mother or father would have reacted to the same incitement. So instead, she smiled coolly. "Women's suffrage has been won, I believe. In any case, I believe my part lies in charitable works."

Mrs. Teaford's fixed smile shifted to an expression of mild outrage. "Women's suffrage won? That's only the case if you are landed and wealthy." She gestured to Anna and the other maids collecting the empty plates, one of Mr. Carson's few concessions to Matthew's modern and practical sensibilities. "Young women in domestic service or factory workers have little chance of owning land, or ever marrying landowners. Does that mean their opinions should not be heard?"

Mary caught Anna's eye briefly and felt a jolt of shame. There was a tense lull at the table. The roast beef had not yet been served, so no one had food in front of them with which to feign inattention. She found herself automatically bringing her wine glass to her lips, to calm her rising aggravation and consider her words.

"I am only an occasional reader of papers, but even I remember that the property requirement was only recently abolished for men. It is not ideal, perhaps, but with our other problems at home and abroad I don't consider a paper ballot worth bringing London to a standstill." The last few words came out louder and more irritated than she'd meant.

"Sybil wouldn't agree." There was a lilting, daring element to Isobel's voice that fanned the flames.

"No," Mary agreed, staring down her mother-in-law over a wine glass. "She's never believed in half-measures and she's never lacked commitment. And so she was trapped overseas during the unrest when Papa was taken ill, and didn't manage to see him." Isobel knew all this, and the mention of her father had caused her guests to stiffen and muster looks of sympathy, and now she had a headache.

Matthew and Mr. Teaford were staring awkwardly, and Mr. Cartwright made a show of starting another conversation about grain prices at the other end of the table. Mary wished she could just stand and usher the women into the drawing room, but there were still another several courses. She gave an imploring glance to Anna, who quickly disappeared down to the kitchens to check on their beef. The food after that tasted like sawdust, and the compliments sounded like empty platitudes.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon after dessert as was seemly, Mary stood and gave a cheery invitation for the ladies to accompany her to the dining room. Despite Carson's attempts to perform the task himself, she managed to eke out some quiet moments as she flicked through their collection of Grammophone recordings to choose the evening's entertainment. With a wry twist of her lips, she chose one starting with _It Had to be You_.

The chatter in the room still had a subdued quality, so the first lines of lyrics were almost comically audible. "_Why do I do, just as you say? Why must I just, give you your way_?" Looking at the assembled company, Mary sighed inwardly at her predicament. Isobel and Sarah Teaford had struck up a rather pointed conversation about Liberal politics, and Mrs. Cartwright was unabashedly ogling the furnishings. Thinking she could better tolerate American crassness than English do-gooding, Mary took the sherry Carson offered and made her way over to Maude.

"You and Mr. Cartwright must be very excited to be moving into Haxby. Its grounds are marvelous for the winter shooting season." She hadn't intended it as a class-conscious remark, but noticed the other woman's forced smile.

"Oh, my husband and I don't plan to use the property for sport shooting," Maude Cartwright replied. "My husband's never learned, you see, and if I'm honest the idea rather upsets me."

Mary was unable to hide her astonishment. "Then why buy a country estate?" Her voice sounded querulous even to herself.

"Why, for entertaining, of course," Maude exclaimed. "No one in New York" - she dragged out the city's name like a prayer - "would expect us to buy an English house that wasn't a castle! Properties in London are so pokey, and the air troubles my husband's lungs besides."

"Well," Mary replied after a second, "it will be wonderful to have more neighbours when planning events - ever since I can remember, Mother has complained about how hard it is to find men in Yorkshire!"

Mrs Cartwright's laugh was brassy, but quieter than Mary expected. "We've almost got the house fully appointed, then we will invite some of our dear friends from America and you must meet them. Sarah, you too," she added brightly, to Mary's slight irritation.

Mrs Teaford had evidently run out of pending legislation to discuss with her sister, and joined Mary and Mrs. Cartwright by the mantle. "I would be glad to!"

There was an awkward lull, and then Mrs Cartwright said hesitantly, "I'll be so happy when we're really settled. I want my life back!" The other women murmured sympathetically.

"How will you spend your time, when you're comfortable again?" inquired Ms. Teaford.

"Oh, same things I did in America, probably, buy French art! I can't seem to stop building my Seurat collection, Haxby is practically drowning in it." Her laugh rang out once more. "And do some work on local schools, hopefully. I was on the board of three New York prep schools for young women back home - just couldn't say no! The women are just darling, we have so much fun."

Ms. Teaford gave Mary a significant glance. "Perhaps you should join her, Mary."

"I think not," Mary parried crisply after sipping at the sherry. "I prefer leaving education to people who are trained for a post rather than buying it." She winced inwardly as she saw how Maude Cartwright had taken the comment as a barb against her. The evening was looking increasingly unsalvageable.

"That seems a bit harsh, Mary," Mrs. Teaford cut in. "Surely people can learn on the job when they find something worth doing."

"Well, I daresay it's possible, but I don't think it's for me. I only ever had governesses, so I would make a terrible school trustee. Besides, I think a person must truly feel passionate about what they do, and school was never a particular passion of mine." She finished the sherry and placed it on the mantle with some firmness, as if by putting down the glass she could engineer an end to the line of questioning.

"Well, what is it you love to do, Mary?" Mrs. Teaford asked Mary the question in the vein of an encouraging aunt. The other ladies turned look at her in a unison that felt judgmental, and she delayed by nodding for Carson to refill her glass of sherry.

"I love to read, to ride," she started defensively. "And I've always thought it important that those of us with titles should maintain the traditions of maintaining a house and formal dining, even if things have changed since the war. Mama has always stressed the trust that exists between servants and their mistress, in the best-run estates."

As she finished, a sputtering laugh rang from the lips of Maude Cartwright. "I don't mean to offend, but dining parties and redecorating are the sorts of things I put up with only when I must, when I want to see old friends, or stick it to a particularly snobbish acquaintance. How depressing, to think people do it for a sense of satisfaction. Riding and reading, well, they're well enough, but you're not a girl of fifteen anymore - don't you want to get out there and knock some heads together, see some action?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mary's tone was ready to cut glass. She was sipping at her sherry glass again and noted that her anger was travelling down her arms, causing the glass to tremor slightly.

"Maybe what Mrs. Cartwright means," Isobel interjected, "is that you are a Countess now, with a certain power to effect change. There are a lot of important issues out there that could do with the support of a prominent member of the aristocracy."

"And I suppose you're all here to tell me what should be my life's work?" Mary could see how they'd become very still, instilled with confidence and a common purpose. There was an indulging condescension that hung about them in a cloud.

"Of course not," said Mrs. Teaford with a feigned casualness. "But please do have a life's work, Mary. There's nothing more unpleasant than an apathetic lady who wastes her intelligence and good breeding."

"That's odd," replied Mary, her tone overly loud and her anger finally unleashed by stress and sherry. "I thought there was nothing more unpleasant than be lectured in one's own home by one's social inferiors."

There was a moment of silence, and Mary saw Carson muffle a slight cough at his post by the door. As her sharp words still rang in the air the door opened and Matthew and Mr. Teaford filed in. The evening's misery threatened to continue; Mary saw a slight tightness in Matthew's jaw that suggested he'd overheard some of the argument. It made her decide she couldn't bear to see any more Crawley disappointment that evening.

Rising, she put her hand to her slightly-flushed forehead. "I'm sorry to retire so early, but I find myself unwell." Aiming a insincere smile at the Teafords and Cartwrights, she said "Do enjoy the rest of your evening." She brushed past Matthew without catching his eye, and entered into the hall.

She was only half the way up the staircase when she felt his hand on her arm. "Mary, don't just stalk off."

"I can't talk any longer with those unbearable, sermonizing women." She shook his hand off and continued up the stairs. "Please give them my regrets."

"Dear, you are being very childish."

"I was being lectured to in my own home," she hissed. "I do not have to tolerate that, and I certainly won't tolerate you taking their side."

"Mary, wait-"

"Goodnight!," she interrupted, and as she crested the top of the staircase he slid out of view.

* * *

_Was there ever an enjoyable, non-fraught dinner meal at Downton, really? I think I would just skip the whole thing and eat cheese on toast in my pajamas, much less stressful._

_Hope you are enjoying this, there is a storm brewing!_


	4. Chapter 4

_I've enjoyed all your Mary cheer-leading in the comments! I'd be interesting to know what you think of its conclusion - and here it is! Last chapter. Thanks so much for reading. Note the rating change..._

* * *

Once in bed she couldn't sleep, and spent the hours with an ignored book on her lap, listening to the faint noises of the house. She imagined Matthew apologizing for her absence, the knowing looks between him and Isobel, the self-congratulatory conversations between the Crawley sisters about volunteering at the local almshouses, visiting the homes of the recently widowed, raising fallen women and their children out of sin. She heard the occasional muffled laugh, and the sound twisted her heart in bitterness. This was not how her first opportunity to host a dinner was supposed to go, and shame, frustration, and anger welled within her. Then she heard the motors pull around and drive off down the road to the village, and knew Isobel and the Cartwrights had left. The rest would be retiring soon.

Half an hour later Matthew's footfalls echoed quietly in the corridor, and she heard them pause outside her door. Then the door opened. He stood there, silhouetted in the light from the corridor, his impeccable suit and tails suddenly putting her at a disadvantage. The light from the hall reflected on his hair, so perfectly combed and with a golden sheen. It was worse, somehow, that he should look so fine while wearing such a pronounced expression of disappointment. Mary wished she hadn't undressed, but silently put the bookmark at her stopping place, and replaced the book on the end table. She wasn't going to speak first.

"Well, that was a perfect evening." There was rueful sarcasm in his voice, along with a barely concealed anger.

"Was it?" She asked with blatant disinterest.

"No, it was awful." He stepped into the room and closed the door sharply. "First Uncle Jack talked his way through two cigars explaining to me that the country estate model was no longer viable and that we'd be bankrupt in a decade. Then we retire to the sitting room to find you and Aunt Sarah at each other's throats. Mr. Cartwright decided to launch into a detailed discussion about his various medical ailments, which of course Mother was happy to advise him on, and then she cornered me in the last half hour and to ask me if I thought you might be pregnant."

He put his hand to his eyes, tiredly, and Mary began to soften towards him, to regret her part in his discomfort, but then his eyes flicked to hers and she saw no equivalent regret in them. "But the worst part was how you left me to play host alone, and acted as if this was all somehow my fault!"

Her lips pursed and she retreated into protective icyness. "Isn't it? You invited them to stay."

"They are my family, Mary. Like everyone's family, they are not perfect, but we see them rarely enough that it's not a huge imposition to be civil." He sat on the bed, but it was a movement filled with hostility and resignation.

Mary hated the way her voice was coming out, rushed and wavering as she strove to hide her defensiveness. "Why should I be? When she's the one who was outrageously rude? You didn't even try to defend me!"

"Don't you say that," Matthew's voice was clipped and accusatory. "I did nothing but defend you downstairs, even though I had no idea why you'd gone and don't understand..."

"You don't understand because you agree with them. You think I'm wasting my time, that I should be off in Ripon saving orphans from some terrible fate."

"I've never told you what to do, Mary." The hurt in his voice cut her. "But why not? Why not find something that matters to you and do it? All our courtship, you said that your life would start with marriage, that women couldn't do anything until they had a husband. Well? What do you want out of your life? Because it's becoming very hard for me to watch you waste it." His face turned from her, spitting out the last two words in distaste. "You could do anything you want, and you're just sniping at people over the dinner table."

As she felt something break in her, she knew that he was right, that Isobel was right, that even the unbearable Mrs. Teaford was right. "Well, thanks for that," she choked out, using the last of her composure to sound angry enough to drive him off. "I'm going to wash my face now. Please be gone when I get back."

Her clipped gestures mimicked her words, and she glided into the bathroom and ran the taps in both sinks on full blast. The noise of the water stifled the ragged sobs that came from her. She bit one fist, muffling the sound further, her mind playing Matthew's distaste and frustration over and over. Her mind cataloged all the times he got up early for meetings in Ripon, all the hours he spent going over the estate business while she read novels, or wrote letters, or took tea with casual acquaintances. They were the activities she had despised as useless at twenty-two, and yet here they were all she was capable of. No wonder Matthew was disappointed with her.

She felt his arms around her suddenly, too comforting and too unwarranted to bear. "Get out. Leave me alone," she cried, her voice hoarse and hopeless.

"I'm so sorry, Mary. I'm so sorry," Matthew whispered brokenly into her neck.

"Why should you be?" She spit back at him, hating him more for apologizing. "I'm useless, at all of it. I can't even host a dinner without falling to pieces."

"I am so sorry. So sorry," he repeated.

"You're right," she broke the words off in fraught gasps. "And Mrs. Teaford's right, even if she was being insufferable..." She broke off, suddenly angry again. "It was so easy for Papa! All he did was love his dogs and get the servants gifts at Christmas and everyone loved him for it."

"I wasn't right, Mary, I was cruel and I should have seen..." He was holding her just as tightly, stroking his hands up and down her arms and pleading with her in forlorn whispers.

"Oh, Matthew, why is this so hard?" She embraced the weeping now, wrapping herself in it as if it was a comfort, feeling the sobs wracking through her.

"It's hard because everything's changing, love. Please don't cry. I didn't mean any of it."

"You did mean it, you were right to say it. I'm so frightful and self-absorbed at the moment that I hate myself for it, but it's no good. What if this is all I'm capable of?" She broke off because the words were becoming indistinguishable, her lips pressed against the fine wool of his suit.

His hands continued to stroke her back, and Mary felt her urge to shake him off subside. "I know so very well what you're capable of. You will find some cause and stick in its corner and fight for it, Mary. It won't be the easiest road, and it might not always win you the most friends, but you will know it's the right stand to take. And when you do, my darling beautiful wife, I will be right behind you."

She felt his lips press against the crown of her head, lovingly laying kisses along her hairline, and she sighed suddenly at the sensation of his breath against her face. "I-I don't know if I can. What if nothing ever interests me? What if all I'm good for is running a house and spending money?"

"As long as I get better at investing money, that wouldn't be the end of the world," Matthew teased, wiping the tear tracks from her face and he tipped it up to bring her eyes to meet his. "Darling Mary, your father's been dead for less than six months, and we've all had to make some big adjustments since then. I think you're entitled to this melancholy without being harassed at your own dinner table."

"Then you'd best tell your mother that," Mary gave him a shaky smile. "And her sister."

"I will. And I'm sorry I lashed out, truly. It's hard to see you like this."

"To seee me wasting my life?" Mary echoed his words back at him, but her tone was more wistful than rancorous.

"Never that," he responded, kissing the edge of her mouth. "You're just beginning it."

The sobs and aching loneliness of a few minutes ago were starting to feel blissfully remote, and Mary felt warmth and love slowly expand in her chest.

"I can write to Mother tonight, if you like." His fingers threaded through hers, stroking her fingertips and bringing a tightness to her belly. "Give her a piece of my mind."

"No." She pressed his hands to her chest and lent to kiss them. "Stay with me." She let her hunger show in her eyes, and relished how he responded to it. He reached out tenderly and rubbed her lower lip with his thumb, and her eyes fluttered shut as she enjoyed the sensations, allowed her front teeth to graze his thumb pad. He moaned softly.

"Yes, better leave that til the morning, I think." With a sweeping motion, he picked her up by her waist, holding her face above his as he nuzzled the base of her neck with his nose, shamelessly inhaling her scent.

She giggled, and kicked her feet in a token protest to his hold of her. At her reaction, he set her down, but not on the floor. Now she was sitting atop the bathroom's marble counter, the cool of the stone seeping in through her nightdress and his arms placed to allow her no escape. Suddenly, she realized the coldness against her back wasn't simply from the marble; the taps still gushed behind her, and spray was beginning to soak her to the skin.

"Matthew! Get me down this instance, I'm getting all wet!"

She felt his hands feel his way brazenly around, caressing the top of her bottom as it sat being drenched by the over-active faucets.

"So you are." He slid his hands underneath her and lifted her firm bottom, giving it an appreciative squeeze. She thought he would pull her forward onto her feet again, but instead she let out a shriek as he pushed her even closer to the sink and she felt the full force of the cool water against her skin. Then his mouth plundered her, his tongue relentlessly darting against hers and causing bolts of arousal travelling between her legs. She reached her fingers into his hair, enjoying the moan that he always gave when she caressed him in that sensitive spot. His kisses continued, his tongue flicking into her mouth and making her hips grind against him in a fevered request.

"I rather like this, with you getting soaked. In fact..." He trailed off, grasping her thin wrists in one hand as he knelt before her. "...I must make sure you're wet all over."

Mary felt delicious thrills, along with a slight shiver, pass through her as Matthew ducked his head under the thin hem of her nightdress and pressed his tongue against her.

It felt like he was washing her clean, like he was erasing a great burden from her with his touch and his love. After she clenched her legs around him and begged, he peeled the sodden cotton from her skin, touching her all over until she was radiating heat once more. It had not been like this since the funeral, she knew. Perhaps it had never been like this before. After their wedding they had been insatiable with new love, determined to never go to bed without lavishing their affection. She couldn't remember when it had shifted to arguments left unsettled at the day's end, to quiet embraces, to the overwhelming tiredness of living one's life with another person forever by your side.

And then Papa had sickened, some unseen scalpel had thinned his face as if overnight; his breaths came ragged and whistling and then not at all. The third night after that she had clung to Matthew as if he was the only solid thing in the room, and they had taken sleep the only way they knew how. But this was not that love either, with past sadness remembered in the hitch of a breath or the tired throb behind her eyes. This felt like a renewal.

"Oh, God Matthew. Please, please, please..." Her breath shuddered suddenly, the sensation and immediacy of Matthew between her legs pulling her back to her surroundings. She realized she was begging, pleading with him for contact beyond the tantalizing softness of his lips. It was not an abandon she was used to, even within this safe room. Somehow after hiding her her weakness for so long, her strength had become a trap; it had always been easier to feel Matthew lose herself inside her than allow him to watch her unravel.

Now Mary watched him, with heavy-lidded eyes, as he rocked back on his heels and stared at her. His face was slick with her juices, his hair devilishly disheveled. She held his gaze fiercely, pulling the sodden obstacle of her nightgown higher and higher, until it was wrapped blanketlike around her midsection. She smiled catlike at his surprise when he realized she wanted him to take her there, soaked in the wet bathroom as his tuxedo became drenched in the smell of her.

Swallowing uncomfortably, Matthew loosened his bowtie in a single moment and threw it from his hands. As his hands fumbled to unbutton his evening shirt, he stood and pressed himself to her, allowing her to feel the hardness of him between her legs.

Mary moaned quietly, and held him closer with his waistband as she undid his trouser buttons. The length of him sprang into her hands as she pushed his trousers down, and Matthew let out an unintelligible cry. Then he was kissing her neck, fiercely, pulling her onto him as he whispered jumbled words of love into her ear.

She was so wet and full of desire that her insides felt like fire as he entered her, the velvet feel of his skin transforming into a sensation that could not be physical, could not be real. She shook, almost violently, and every movement drew her further into him and forced moans and whimpers of complete capitulation from her lips.

"More, more," she was crying when her breath allowed it. "Yes. Please. Oh, my love..." She felt nothing of the cold now, only expanding warmth wherever their skin met. Matthew's chest, partially exposed by the shirt he might have ruined, undulated against her damp nightgown in time with his labored breathing.

His voice was higher now too, and his hands had reached under her buttocks to guide himself in and out of her with greater and greater urgency. "Mary, my beautiful, my darling wife...God, I love you. I love you..."

And then that was all they were saying, with their tongues pressed against each other's, with her legs wrapped around his trunk, with their ragged cries as their rhythm broke into desperate convulsions. Matthew gave one last powerful thrust and collapsed against her, and her inner muscles contracted around him in waves of bliss.

She sat with her face pressed against him, thoughts of the last several days tumbling wildly in her mind until something crystallized from the chaos. "I think I have an idea," she confessed once her breathing slowed, her words wonderfully jumbled by the smooth skin of his chest as she whispered them against his body.

"Yes?" As he whispered back to her he found her hand and clutched it close, and she felt the thrum of his heartbeat and the slickness of his sweat.

"And it means Murray has to keep his bloody hands off my barn," she added in wry triumph.

His laugh was throaty, catlike. "Do go on."

"A riding school," she started, simply. "I could make up a prospectus, with Lynch. We'd need a few more teachers, once it got properly started, but for now we could manage."

She teased her tongue along his collarbone, feeling post-release tremors shake through him. "There's a lot of good families now that have sold their country estates, and they'd want their children to learn how to ride in a place like this."

Matthew arched his neck against hers, and she marveled in the wonderful feeling of his slight prickliness against her skin. "I think you'll have a knack for this, love."

"Their fees can cover feed and care of the horses," Mary continued, allowing a small smile to press against his chin, "and scholarships for the students from less fortunate families."

"It's wonderful," Matthew murmured. "Perfect." He held her gaze so that there was no question to whom he was referring.

"Everyone should get a chance to ride," she answered deprecatingly. She made a face at him as he continued his expression of loving earnestness. "They'll fight horribly, you know. Children are beasts."

"Perhaps," Matthew admitted.

"But they'll sink or swim on their own merits. And jockeys make a good living, so students admitted on scholarship will have terrific motivation."

"And all those baronets and lords worried about their children mixing with the rabble?" Matthew teased, running his hands along her sides. "And training children with no experience around horses? Gosh, it sounds difficult."

She cocked a haughty eyebrow at him. "I'm sure I'll manage them," she replied coolly.

Matthew's laugh bubbled from him like pure effervescence, and he pulled her from the counter with a rapidity that surprised her. "I'm sure you shall, as long as I don't let you catch cold. Let's get to bed, it sounds like we both have a lot to get started tomorrow."

He pulled his trousers from the floor with a faint smile, partway between embarrassment and licentiousness, and led her from the ensuite.


End file.
